


Work to Do

by Saxifactumterritum



Series: Already got a family anyway [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Related, Other, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: Follows on from 'Shall we go now?'. Treville and Porthos work out what family means to them. Sort of. This is very meandering.





	Work to Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhesascoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhesascoffee/gifts).



> WARNINGS: injury, mention of whipping in past (Treville's memory)

_The first time Porthos approaches him after de Foix dies, Treville feels everything in him go tense. He can’t understand his friend’s need to tell Porthos anything. Porthos wants to know his history, his father, where he comes from, but Treville can’t see that knowing Belgard will serve anything. Belgard won’t give Porthos a single shred of that, he’ll take everything away with lies and manipulation and cruelty. That’s what he does. Porthos doesn’t deserve that. All Porthos wants, though, is to clasp Treville’s shoulder warmly, press his forehead to Treville’s, murmur words of comfort. All he wants is to show Treville the bottle of whiskey he’s brought with him to Treville’s rooms. All he wants is to offer company while Treville grieves, if Treville wants it._  
  
_“I’m not grieving, Porthos. I’m furious,” Treville says, too sharply. He shrugs Porthos off._  
  
_Porthos just nods gravely. He leaves the bottle. Treville sits on the floor with it and weeps, drinking every drop of it. Sitting on the floor next to the bed where de Foix died. Porthos returns when Treville is too exhausted and drunk to even sit upright anymore, kneeling beside him and checking he’s ok before getting up into a crouch and scooping Treville into his arms, standing with a grunt of effort and staggering before finding his balance. Treville hopes he’s not going to be carried like a babe in arms through his garrison. He trusts Porthos, though, and he’s right to: Porthos just takes him next door to the room where he receives people, with its door through to his office, and lays him on the settee he’s got in the window._  
  
_Treville wakes wrapped in a blanket, Porthos’s cloak over the top, a mug of water on the floor beside him. Treville can’t do anything useful, he’s too squint-eyed and suffering from whiskey, so he just drinks the water and lays on his back, watching the world spin. Porthos comes up a few hours later, leaning in the doorway and grinning at Treville. He brings breakfast and more whiskey, so Treville forgives his amusement. He lets Porthos stay, this time, and Porthos listens attentively to all the stories Treville tells about de Foix, carefully editing Belgard out of them._  
  
_Treville thinks he’s safe, de Foix is dead and no one else knows. Belgard could never ever find Porthos even if he did try. Treville’s checked. So when Porthos comes up, in the middle of a mission no less, to ask about de Foix’s legacy Treville is taken by surprise. He can do nothing. He has always been powerless in the face of Belgard’s eternal graspings, never been able to stop any of it. Porthos is wrong about his ability to lie, he’s very good at it and very practiced. He learnt from the best – Belgard and Richelieu, his two ill-advised friendships. It’s just Porthos, stood there, burning with anger and need and some kind of desperate hope. And then again, Porthos is right, he never did get very good at lying. The brash, honest soldier, Richelieu always said. He does know his role and he’s good at playing it._

***

 

They bring Porthos back a month into the war, drenched in sweat, shaking, bleeding no matter what they do for him. A blade that wasn’t clean, a battlefront where the rain didn’t stop for days and the mud was up to their shins, and no real medical supplies meaning everything is infected. They manage to undo the stitches, Porthos’s flesh swollen around them with infection, and reopen the wound to clean it. They find a piece of shrapnel in his leg that’s beginning to fester but went unnoticed, and they manage to bring his fever down at least a little. He lies on a bed in Constance’s rooms at the garrison, delirious, limp, wet with sweat. Day in day out he stares at the ceiling, eyes roving over the cracks and lines. Constance does her work in there, charting everything that they have here, making sure that she has lists of every musketeer and knows what regiment they’ve joined if they’ve gone to the war. She’s trying to learn everything about the place so she can be most use. She bathes Porthos, changes his clothes and the bedding when he sweats through everything, helps him drink, helps him piss, holds his head when he vomits. Treville finds her on the fourth day on her knees, praying, and she’s unable to keep from weeping when she sees him.

 

“You need a break,” Treville says, helping her to her feet and guiding her out of the room. “Don’t worry, we’ll look after him. Take some time, eat something, clean up. Then go to the palace, her majesty would love to see you. Take a day.”

 

“I can’t,” Constance says, covering her face. “Porthos. I need to stay with him, god help me but I love him.”

 

Treville blinks. She married d’Artagnan. She can’t mean… Treville gapes at her.

 

“Porthos is very… compelling,” Treville suggests, awkwardly, clearing his throat a few times. “But… I mean…”

 

She looks up at him, confusion and then startlement on her face.

 

“He’s my friend, you idiot!” she says, hitting Treville’s chest. “I’m not _in_ love, what is wrong with you?!”

 

“Oh,” Treville says. “Thank god.”

 

Constance starts to laugh, a hysterical edge to it at first but it evens out into genuine amusement and she sighs when she’s done, looking better. Looking less frazzled. Treville offers her a smile in return.

 

“I’m telling d’Artagnan about that in my next letter,” she says, her hand still against his chest. “I needed a laugh. And you’re right, I do need a break.”

 

She goes back to Porthos first, though, sitting on the edge of the bed and washing sweat off his face and neck and chest, waiting for his wandering eyes to rest on her face before explaining to him that she’s going to be away, but she’s coming back.

 

“You hear me? I’m coming back, I’m not leaving you, I’ll be back. Are you in there somewhere, Porthos?” Constance asks, hand against his cheek to try and keep his eyes on her. He just stares, then closes his eyes with a moan, turning to the side to vomit weakly. “Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up. Then I’m going to get some food and water and some sleep, and I’ll visit the queen and prince Louis. I haven’t seen the baby in weeks, he’s going to be so big.”

 

She chatters on as she works cleaning up, about what the prince might be up to now, what Anne might have to say to her, how the war might be going.

 

“Athos is probably at the head of a charge, all shining,” she says, not even paying attention to what she’s saying anymore. She notices when Porthos actually looks at her, eyes steady for a moment. “What is it? What caught your attention there?” she runs back through what she said. “Oh. Athos? Mm? He’s probably very well, worrying about you but fine I’m sure. He wrote me a letter, you had it when you arrived. He was very demanding about how I took care of you, my friend.”

 

“Athos,” Porthos mumbles, fingers itching across his chest to the bed and to her dress. He holds the fabric between his thumb and middle finger and gives a small tug.

 

“He sends his love,” Constance says, making a note not to mention Athos’s name again. Porthos is clearer, but she’s pretty sure he’s asking for Athos, who she can’t supply. He doesn’t seem distressed yet, but when Athos doesn’t appear and Constance doesn’t leap up to get him Porthos tugs at her dress again. “He’s not here, I’m sorry. Treville is here to see you, though. Remember Treville? I’m going to go visit the queen and the prince, now, Treville is going to sit with you. I’ll leave him the instructions that you brought.”

 

“From Athos,” Porthos says, tugging her dress.

 

“Yeah,” Constance says. “I don’t know what you want, Porthos.”

 

Porthos frowns and lets go of her dress, hand falling back to the bed, eyes wandering away and glazing over. Constance sighs and gets up, taking the bowl of water with her. She’ll send one of the cadets in with more for Treville, cleaner.

 

“Athos,” Porthos says, gaze making its way back to Constance. He moans and pushes weakly at the blanket. “Athos.”

 

“Sorry, he’s not here,” Constance says. Porthos makes a frustrated sound and tugs at his blanket.

 

“Want,” Porthos says, tears starting in his eyes. Constance goes to crouch, to sit by him again, taking his hand gently, pulling it away from the blanket. “Something.”

 

“Something? You want something?” Constance says, still confused. “Something… Athos. Something of his? A blanket or a shirt of his?”

 

Porthos tries to sit up but he can’t and it must hurt him. He starts to cry, but he’s too tired to cry properly and it ends up just being a thin, distressed sound. Constance closes her eyes, frantically trying to work out what he wants, what he needs. Where Treville is. She’s just about to start crying again herself when Treville enters again, a cloak over his arm.

 

“Where have you been?” She demands, getting to her feet. Porthos is barely making a noise now but his breathing is loud and uneven.

 

“I came in and heard him asking for Athos, I thought these might help,” Treville says, giving her a reassuring, understanding smile. She wants to hit him. She refrains.

 

Treville goes to the bed and spreads the cloak over Porthos, murmuring something soothing, guiding his hand to the buttons. Treville puts Athos’s rosary in Porthos’s other hand and closes his fingers gently around it. Porthos shudders, but quiets and calms a little bit.

 

“I don’t know what he wanted,” Constance says, feeling helpless.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Treville says. “He’ll tell us when he can.”

 

“I didn’t know Athos had a rosary, he doesn’t believe in anything,” Constance says.

 

“It was his mother’s,” Treville says. “The beads are very smooth, the one at the top is distinctive, Porthos should recognise it as his.”

 

“Ok,” Constance says. “Ok. I need to go.”

 

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t come before, I couldn’t get away. I’ve told them to call for me here in an emergency but to leave me otherwise, and I’ve asked Florian to come sit with him if I’m called away. Stay at the Louvre until you’ve rested.”

 

Constance nods jerkily and leaves, trying not to be too hasty, rush too much.

 

**

 

_de Foix is beautiful, still. That’s the first thing Treville thinks when he sees him again after so many years, after thinking he was dead or worse, when he rides into the courtyard as if no years at all have passed. Then de Foix is stumbling in Porthos’s hands and Treville starts forward, calling out orders but not paying attention to anything but de Foix. He follows after them into his rooms and kneels, touching de Foix’s cheek, and de Foix turns his head and he’s smiling, and Treville kisses him without even thinking._

_“I’m in France,” de Foix breathes._

_“Yes, yes,” Treville says, laughing, cradling de Foix’s face. “Yes, my friend, you’re home.”_

_There’s the business of getting de Foix undressed and seeing to his wound, but it’s routine, something easy that they can fall into together. They know this. Treville’s hands are sure, de Foix’s body is familiar – newly scarred and older, but still the same man._

_“Your hands are warm,” de Foix mumbles, when Treivlle is done and de Foix’s wound is dressed, he’s in soft clothes, and covered over._

_“You should be asleep,” Treville scolds._

_“I wanted to see you again before I slept,” de Foix grumbles. “You were all the way over there, fiddling about with my clothing.”_

_Treville laughs, it catches and he has to breathe slowly and evenly, resting his forehead against de Foix’s shoulder. It’s strange. Cold and dark, all of a sudden, and Treville can’t find de Foix afterall. He heard a shot, he was sure it was de Foix – de Foix was shot. It must have been that. He peels open his eyes and he’s in the garrison, where de Foix should be, but down in the hall. On a table. There’s blood on the floor and noise and people talking. He feels a hand cradling his head and closer than all the others there’s shaky breathing and a prayer, whispered right close. Porthos. He’d know him anywhere. Treville breathes, and it hurts somehow, like a catch, like de Foix died afterall, after all that, after coming home. Porthos is gone and Treville passes out._

_When he wakes again it’s to Constance’s voice. She’s sat beside him, a hand on his arm, reading … Treville frowns, listening. As far as he can tell, she’s reading out a ledger about the costs of different fabrics. He listens for a while, her voice is nice and she’ll stop and mutter to herself now and then about how it’s not right and stop reading. He hears the scribble of writing on paper, then, before she starts off again. It’s not a gripping tale, though, and eventually he manages to pry open an eye. It’s dim, things are swimming about, he finds her face in the murk, a blurry blob of colour._

_“Ah, you’re awake again, good,” Constance says. She sounds cheerful. “Lemay says it’s a good sign if you’re awake and able to pay attention. Here.”_

_Here what? Treville thinks, but already there’s something wetting his lips and then she’s lifting his head so he can drink some water, and then something bitter._

_“Porthos says you like being read to,” she says, sitting back down. “However, I’m busy, I’m selling on what’s left of my husband’s business. You’ll have to listen to that.”_

_Treville sighs inwardly and goes to sleep in defence._

_***_

 

Treville has sat with Porthos before, many times. It’s nothing new. He has plenty of work to keep him occupied when Porthos is asleep, he’s quite happy to read to Porthos when he’s awake, quiet happy to sit with him even unable to talk. What he does say is nonsense, garbled, unintelligible. He sweats. His wound, still swollen and angry, bleeds. The physicians who come say he’s going to die but Treville doubts that. He ignores them and cleans Porthos’s wounds, holds Porthos’s hand around Athos’s rosary, which Porthos refuses to let go, and tells Porthos stories whenever he’s awake. He’s sat with his back to the bed, one day, Porthos on his side facing Treville, breathing harsh near Treville’s ear. Treville’s telling him an ambling story about a duck that he’s getting tangled up in.

 

“Athos ate it,” Porthos mutters, hand flailing against Treville’s shoulder and holding on a moment before moving on, fingers restlessly running over the sheet and blanket before returning to Treville’s shoulder.

 

“Athos ate what?” Treville asks, not expecting an answer, or nothing coherent. He readies to continue his story.

 

“The duck,” Porthos whispers. “You were telling me…”

 

Treville smiles, taking Porthos’s straying hand and pulling gently so he can hold on a moment.

 

“So I was,” Treville says. “I think I had better find something to read. I’ve run out of books in here, so unless you want to hear reports I might have to go searching. Or there’s the bible?”

 

“Revelations,” Porthos breathes, then he’s gone again, fever eating him up.

 

Treville fetches the bible but refrains from reading revelations, supposing that reading about fire and brimstone to someone feverish is a bad idea. Instead he reads Numbers, which sends them both off to sleep.

 

**

 

_Treville knows he loves Porthos the first time Aramis brings him back from a mission with a bullet in him, deep in the flesh of his side. They know, that time, that Porthos might die. Treville sits with him when he can, and it’s Treville who goes to the king to ask for a favour, when nothing is working, nothing helping, when Porthos is still dying and won’t get better. He kneels before Louis, the man he raised from a boy, who he loves in some ways as a son. As much as a king might allow that. He knows he loves Porthos when he begs Louis to send a physician, any physician who isn’t a butcher, who won’t amputate or bleed or burn Porthos. Louis doesn’t care, Louis just sends one of the court doctors and teases Treville about it for a while, assuming it’s for a woman, a love affair. Richelieu watches him intently for a while but shrugs it off eventually and tells Treville he should care less for his men._

_But from that day, Treville knows._

**

 

Porthos drifts in and out of coherency in the following days. Treville and Constance take turns, but eventually they are both needed at the palace. They put Porthos in a carriage and he lies in the back, Treville sitting on the floor beside him, head turned so his cheek is pressed to the wood, moaning and cursing with every bump and jolt. When they stop he drags himself, as if trying to escape, toward the light. Treville presses against his chest to keep him still and holds the door closed while Porthos cries, stroking Porthos’s wet cheek and murmuring what assurances he has until Porthos falls asleep, or into delirium. He’s bourn into the Louvre, Treville following along, and laid out in Treville’s rooms on expensive sheets, bleeding into the rich fabrics. Treville changes his bandages and the physician comes with medicine.

 

Treville works sat on the floor with his back against the bed, signing what needs to be signed. When he has to meet with people he slips out into the next room, leaving the door ajar. Half the people at court think he has a sick child, the other half think he’s coveting a mistress. One or two thought he was hiding the queen in there, but they haven’t been back at court. Treville wonders what Anne did with them. Something dreadful, he’s sure, she has a temper and currently, with Louis in a good mood and pleased with her, a lot of power. Most of the time, though, he sits with Porthos.

 

“I was dreaming about you,” Porthos murmurs, startling Treville out of his thoughts. He’s contemplating a map and trying to work out why he has four reports with conflicting information. Porthos’s hand falls against Treville’s shoulder, fingers against the nape of Treville’s neck. “You were golden.”

 

“Golden,” Treville says, paying more attention to the map than Porthos.

 

“Standing in the courtyard, your pistol slung over your shoulder, starin’ at Belgard in the window,” Porthos says, voice a wisp. “My father.”

 

***

 

_After Porthos leaves, Treville can leave too. He knows that Porthos is ok, that they’re good. Or at least ok. They will be good. Porthos still trusts and respects him, that’s clear and is enough for Treville. He feels like he’s won something. Won Porthos. He knows the house, knows Belgard’s hallways and rooms and dark corners, knows the riddle of servant’s stairs, knows the shortcuts to the courtyard. Levesque is lying there on the cobbles, dead. d’Artagnan’s sat, a line of prisoners kneeling with their hands tied, under his watchful gaze. Though he seems also to be watching Porthos, over by the horses, with Athos. Aramis is leaning against a wall, he gives Treville a lazy salute with his pistol. Treville gives a few orders but things are moving fine without his input, really. He waits until the others are gone to take his last look at this place._

 

_He was young here, so very young. He fell in love here more than once, fought with this stone under his boots just like this. He and de Foix sat on those steps bickering, many times. He knows the stables, can map them in his head, knows the haylofts and can smell and hear the horses that used to live there. Knows the stable hands, too, knows his lithe body. Her body, in the end, as it turned out, dragging Treville after her into the loft, laughing at his clumsy hands. They’d been eighteen. Maybe he’d been a year older. His own horse stood there often, flank to flank with Belgard’s mare, with de Foix’s oddly tempered Flick who had died, fallen on the road, shot with Treville’s own ball. He remembers so many days spent here, so many weeks and months and years in these walls, under this roof, under this sky. He knows the land around him. He knows this place._

 

 _It doesn’t hurt to leave it, though. He never bothers to remember Belgard here, as the years passed, more and more sure of himself and more and more demanding that they follow him without thought, follow his orders. Doesn’t ever think of the times he hated being here, wanted to leave more than anything. Can’t turn his mind’s eye to the cruelties he saw Belgard inflict on his staff. Watching him have the white kitchen maid whipped, red pears of blood drawn in lines across her back. Can’t think because he was there, he stood and watched. But, no, de Foix was right: they_ hadn’t _stood and watched. They walked in on it, out in the courtyard here. They walked in on it and their outrage and fear and anger had not been kept back, had not been swallowed. That time, de Foix remembers, they did stop it. They wrapped her up and took her away and refused to stand idly by. So many times, though, and they’d sworn as Belgard made them. Blood oaths, palms pressed together, heads bent to the serious task of knitting themselves into one another’s lives until they were inextricable._

 

_He can leaves this place. de Foix is dead. Porthos will forgive. He has Porthos. There isn’t anything else he wants from this place, nothing else here for him. He looks up at the house where he was young and stupid and cruel, and smiles at how much time has passed, how he has changed. He won’t go back to that. He sees Belgard at the window and raises his head, smiling wider, thinking of how he has once again stolen Belgard’s son from this dark house. The first time he failed to follow through, this time he won’t fail. This time he knows what he’s doing._

 

_“Captain?” Porthos says, coming up behind him._

 

_“I was just thinking,” Treville says. Porthos comes to stand still at his shoulder, also looking up at the window. Terville tips his head a little, turning toward Porthos. “Do you need anything else here?”_

 

_“No. There’s nothing here for me,” Porthos says._

 

_Treville nods and turns his back on Belgard, resting a hand in the small of Porthos’s back as Porthos turns as well. He sees the other three lined up by the horses, d’Artagnan’s gaze is intent on Porthos, Athos isn’t even looking at them he’s holding Mercredi’s head and talking to her, Aramis is smiling, happy with the world around him. Treville nudges Porthos and points at the three idiots._

 

_“Got a family afterall, Porthos,” Treville says._

 

_“Yeah I have,” Porthos says, shoulder brushing Treville. “Yeah.”_

 

_***_

 

It’s beginning to get colder at nights now, as winter begins to set into the bones of the city, creeping up the stone and into their rooms. Treville has a fire lit all the time, trying to keep Porthos warm. He’s healing a little at a time, now, the red wounds turning pink, the swelling going down. Porthos is still exhausted and limp, barely moving except to breathe, to use the commode, to eat. Treville’s out in the next room, meeting with General Levoix when he hears Porthos vomiting.

 

“Excuse me a moment,” Treville says.

 

“Of course, your son. How is he?” Levoix asks. “He was injured at the front?”

 

“Yes,” Treville says, not bothering to correct anything. He goes through and kneels, holding Porthos’s head as he throws up whatever he had for breakfast today. “Alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, breathing hard. “Bloody hell.”

 

“If you’re done I’ll get rid of this,” Treville says, indicating the commode Porthos was just sick into.

 

“Please,” Porthos says. “Water?”

 

Treville gives him the cup that’s there for him and goes to clear up. Porthos is asleep when he gets back, eyelashes wet against his cheek, sprawled awkwardly on the bed as if he just flopped down where he was, mouth open. Treville gently rearranges him into a more comfortable position and strokes his forehead when he moans in pain, his cheek. How can he love one of his men like this? But, perhaps, what did Levoix misunderstand? Maybe nothing at all. Treville presses a kiss to Porthos’s cheek and goes back to his business with the general.

 

“I didn’t know you had a son until he was hurt,” Levoix says. “You have lost your wife as I have?”

 

“His mother is dead,” Treville says, before turning the conversation away from wives and children and back to war. He has plenty to do, he doesn’t have time to sit gossiping.

 

When Levoix is gone he returns to Porthos’s room to build up the fire and sits on the floor, bones aching. He doesn’t care. He sits and signs what needs to be signed, reads what needs to be read, ties up reports and files ready to be taken to be stored. Porthos wakes. Treville knows he’s awake but he doesn’t seem distressed and he doesn’t interrupt Treville so he stays quiet too, listening to Porthos’s breathing, working on the mounds and mounds of papers.

 

“It’s the river,” Porthos says.

 

“Mm?”

 

“Those reports. Four that didn’t add up,” Porthos says, voice still hoarse but stronger now. “It’s the river, it’s marked wrong on the map.”

 

Treville narrows his eyes at the letter he’s writing. He never did solve that mystery. He gets out the map, buried at the bottom of the pile of things he needs to get to, given up on.

 

“You mutter. When you work,” Porthos says, yawning. “I’m bored.”

 

“Lie still and rest,” Treville says, finding the reports and reading them over again, retracing the river. “You’re right.”

 

“Always right,” Porthos says, dozing off again. “I meant you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“That day. I have family,” Porthos breathes, barely a whisper.

 

Treville ignores it, but once Porthos is asleep he turns his head to look, to watch Porthos as he sleeps.

 

***

 

Porthos starts sitting up and moving around. Moving from the bed to a settee, anyway. Constance comes, sometimes she brings the young prince. Treville is away more, needed in meetings, called on by an increasingly petulant Louis, an increasingly firm Anne. Constance splits her time between the palace and the garrison, and Porthos. She sits and gossips and writes long letters to d’Artagnan, putting in anything Porthos thinks d’Artagnan might need to hear. Porthos makes her put in a description of the wound in his thigh once Porthos realises how close it is to his crotch.

 

“Nearly lost my -”

 

“du Vallon! I’m a lady!” Constance cuts him off, scandalised.

 

She laughs, though, at his silly giggle. He’s sprawled beside her, awkwardly propped up with cushions, in pain but also glazed and dozy with something the doctor gave, body limp. He opens his mouth. Constance holds up a hand and he stops, giggling again.

 

“I was just going to say you are beautiful,” Porthos says.

 

“Liar,” Constance says. “You were going to cast aspersions against my person.”

 

Porthos opens his mouth again and Constance reaches out to cover it, not letting whatever he was going to say about her out. He laughs again, softly this time, reaching up to hold her hand.

 

“I could’ve married you, if the pup hadn’t got there first,” Porthos says.

 

“Who says I’d have taken you?” Constance says.

 

“We’d have been good. We’re friends,” Porthos says.

 

“You haven’t a romantic bone in your body. First you want to marry Lemay and-” Constance stops, the pain of Lemay’s death still close.

 

“He was a good man,” Porthos says, around a sigh. “If I could marry for love, I’d marry Athos.”

 

“Porthos,” Constance says, breathing in sharply.

 

“What? Like there’s anyone who doesn’t know it,” Porthos says. Then he thinks. “Except maybe him.”

 

Constance laugh, giving his hand a squeeze, not knowing what to say.

 

“Marrying for friendship isn’t so bad,” Porthos says.

 

“Not bad at all,” Constance says.

 

“Where is the minister?” Porthos asks, sighing again and shifting.

 

“I can help,” Constance says. “I held your-”

 

“You,” Porthos says, cutting her off this time, “are a _lady_. You should not know any names for what you held. And you shouldn’t mention unmentionables.”

 

“Come on,” Constance says, sitting up and holding out an arm, helping Porthos extract himself from the settee, letting him use her strong shoulders for support to limp over to the bed.

 

“You’ve been sword fighting,” he murmurs as she helps him stretch out.

 

“We’re at war, du Vallon,” Constance says. “Besides, the cadets haven’t got anyone left to spar with.”

 

“Madame d’Art _agnan_ ,” he says, pretending shock.

 

“Shut up and go to sleep, Monsieur,” Constance says, poking him until he closes his eyes, sighing again. “Treville’s gone to the gates, they’re sending out another regiment and Treville is attending in the king’s place.”

 

“Put in your letter to d’Artagnan…” Porthos trails off, opening his eyes on a slow blink. “Tell him about my unmentionables.”

 

“Go to _sleep_ ,” Constance says, laughing helplessly. “I’m telling him nothing about you at all, I’m not even going to mention you.”

 

“He’ll wonder what you’ve been up to, keeping secrets,” Porthos says, dozing now, almost asleep. “Having a passionate love affair with his best friend.”

 

“I do love you, Porthos,” Constance says. “I’ll love you better if you rest. Right now you smell.”

 

Porthos breathes out long and low, a huff that might be laughter. Constance laughs too, and does put something in her letter to her husband afterall. _Porthos is well,_ she tells them. _Or getting there. He is starting to get into trouble, so we know he’s on the mend._

 

***

 

Porthos follows Treville through the Louvre as Treville heads for the king’s council meeting. Porthos is sitting in as strategy advisor and Treville’s aide, but before that he has to get there. Treville slows some more but Porthos is still falling behind. Treville tries to work out a way to help, without stepping on pride or taking away -

 

“Captain, give me your bloody shoulder and stop sprinting,” Porthos says, interrupting Treville’s dilemna.

 

“It’s minister now,” Treville says, stopping and turning, holding out his arm. Porthos takes it, grimacing, stopping too. “A shoulder?”

 

“Yeah, hang on,” Porthos says, getting his breath. He grins at Treville and it’s soft, amused, fond. “You worry about everything, don’t you?”

 

Treville doesn’t answer that, he doesn’t feel like it’s a real question. Porthos puts his arm across Treville’s shoulders, his other arm held tight against his side, the wound there. He limps, pausing now and then to curse at his leg or his stomach or his side or Treville. It’s all good natured cursing, Treville doesn’t take it personally. When they reach the quarters with the offices and meeting rooms Porthos lets Treville go and takes his arm again, accepting less support. He walks into the room mostly under his own steam and takes his seat, back from the table, almost out of sight. He has pen and paper and Treville hands him the files he brought before taking his place.

 

Porthos is, it turns out, good at this. He’s silent unless directly addressed, passes Treville things he needs before being asked, keeps track of the meeting so he can get everything lined up. Afterwards he goes over his notes with Treville, most of which seem to be criticisms and suggestions. There’s an entire page of reasons why Baron de Rossier’s idea Will Not Work. It’s sound reasoning. Treville passes Porthos another file, stopping at the settee where Porthos is sat awkwardly around his injuries, to top up Porthos’s wine.

 

“You’ll put me to sleep, captain,” Porthos says.

 

“Paperwork,” Treville agrees darkly. To his surprise Porthos laughs.

 

“The wine, sir,” Porthos says, amusement softening him as he looks up at Treville.

 

“People keep asking after my son,” Treville says, frowning. He’s had a lot of wine tonight. “I’m not sure I have any misunderstanding to correct.”

 

Porthos sighs, putting aside his wine. He gets to his feet and makes his way over to the window, looking out across the courtyards. Treville sits, chastened, and drinks Porthos’s wine. He does not know what to say next. Porthos is leaning heavily on the windowsill, he looks a bit like he might not stay upright much longer.

 

“You are my son,” Treville says, finding words afterall.

 

“We don’t choose family, huh? Or what? You’d surely not choose me?” Porthos asks.

 

“I would,” Treville says. “Every time. I have chosen you, I do choose you. Whenever it is a choice, I will always choose you.”

 

**

 

Porthos sneaks into the Dauphin’s rooms, looking for Constance, and finds himself sat on a chair with the baby in his lap while Constance clears up, complaining that this isn’t her job, that when she’s not picking up after the baby she’s picking up after the cadets, that when she’s not picking up after any of them she’s picking up after Porthos.

 

“I don’t need picking up after,” Porthos tells Louis. “Right, your highness? We’re neat and tidy.”

 

Constance turns, her arms full of clothing and toys, and gives them a very unimpressed look.

 

“You should not be here, monsieur musketeer,” Constance says, turning away again and going back to shoving things in drawers, folding things, cursing the underservants and nurses.

 

“I can’t leave, you put his majesty in me lap,” Porthos points out, quite reasonably. He certainly doesn’t deserve the tiny ball of stockings that gets lobbed at his head. He catches it easily and unwinds them. The dauphin’s legs are bare so Porthos rolls them on. Constance watches him, then throws other items of clothing at him until the prince is fully kitted out in the most ridiculously over the top baby clothes Porthos has ever seen. “Is there more?”

 

“Always,” Constance says, sitting heavily next to him. “You honestly shouldn’t be here.”

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Porthos says, grimacing as the baby, only just dressed, farts and laughs happily, hauling himself up on Porthos’s jacket. “I think he needs a new napkin.”

 

“Lord in heaven,” Constance says.

 

“Go on, then, pass it all over and I’ll do what’s needed,” Porthos says. Then pauses. “Is it a treasonable offence to clean the royal bottom without qualifications?”

 

“I’m gonna shoot you myself,” Constance says.

 

She passes on the duty of changing the dauphin without a fuss, though. She watches him again, shaking her head at his easy, practiced movements. It tugs uncomfortably at his side to lift the baby but it’s not so bad. Porthos wonders where this little lord’s nurses and servants are, but he understands when, ten minutes after he’s been changed and redressed, Constance looks up sharply and sends Porthos away. Porthos catches a glimpse of the queen coming sweeping in as he’s limping out, Constance rising to greet her with the baby in her arms. Porthos limps back to Treville’s rooms. He has lots of them, here, though he’s rarely in them at the moment, busy with policy and meetings. He drags Porthos to some, to sit in a corner and notice things, but today he’s in with the king and has no use for Porthos. Porthos wants to return to the garrison, but instead he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Eventually Constance comes to find him.

 

“Will you take me home?” Porthos asks her.

 

“Sure.”

 

“That was easy.”

 

“You’re not a prisoner, and I’m not your mother.”

 

She makes him walk to the carriage, but she seems as glad as he is to escape the palace. He watches as she strides into the garrison, the cadets coming to greet her. She stops to watch some sparring and gives a few instructions, then gathers up a pair of boots and throws them at the head of a thin young man lounging against the table. Porthos sighs and makes his slow way after her, his skin pulling as if tearing open again. Constance finds him in Athos’s rooms, a little lost.

 

“I came here without thinking,” Porthos says, taking the arm she offers.

 

“You can come to our rooms, mine and Charlie’s,” Constance says, being gentle because she can do nothing else.

 

“Constance, Treville said that I may as well be his son,” Porthos says.

 

“Did he? That’s nice,” Constance says, focussing on not letting Porthos drop to the floor - he’s exhausted and dreamy, steps meandering and faltering. “Come on, come on.”

 

They make it to her rooms and Porthos sits on the bed, looks around in confusion, tries to get up and leave. Constance pushes him down onto his back and unwraps him from the thick bandages that are still holding him together.

 

“I need to…” Porthos trails off, looking at her helplessly.

 

“Sure. You can do that when I’m finished,” Constance says, checking for renewed infection, for fever. Everything seems fine. A little inflamed but nothing bad. She sits on the bed, leaving the wounds open to the air. Porthos is all-but naked, now, his underthings loose and pushed up so she could get at his thigh. “I dunno, Porthos. My father was a kind enough man but mostly he wanted to get me married and away. My brothers were ok but I learnt early where to kick them, how to keep them away from me. My husband wasn’t anything to write home about. d’Artagnan’s good to me, when he remembers to be. He loves me. Family’s not always straight lines.”

 

“I don’t… I was never angry with him. I forgave him easy, I even understood. Understand. Honest I do, it’s following orders and camaraderie and trust, and morals aren’t always easy to unpick let alone follow. But he sent me there, right into Belgard’s arms. Didn’t warn me of anything. I guess I always imagined a father as someone who’d protect me, who’d come and get me, who’d make something better.”

 

“And Treville isn’t that?” Constance asks, pulling a blanket over Porthos while he’s not paying attention; he’s going to stay here tonight, whatever his own plans. “Just ‘cus he thinks he’s got a son doesn’t mean you’ve got to chose that too.”

 

“I’ve never had a family,” Porthos whispers, turning his head away as tears slide over his cheeks. “I wanted one.”

 

“I know,” Constance says. “You’ve got me, anyway. We don’t have to assign familial relationships to be family do we? Have I got to be your sister or your mother or something? Both sound terrible. But you’re my family, whatever I might be to you. You and d’Artagnan, Athos. And Treville, now. Past month we’ve spent a lot of time together. I like him.”

 

“You’re married,” Porthos says. “There’s another family for you, already. You and d’Artagnan, and little baby Constances.”

 

Constance laughs. She can’t help herself, it’s such a ridiculous idea. When she married Bonacieux she left her family, that’s true, but she can’t imagine her and d’Artagnan ever having a life that didn’t include Porthos, barging in and taking up space. She doesn’t ever picture a future without him, or without Athos being around as well.

 

“You’re always welcome here,” Constance says, lying on her back at his side. “Fuck proprietary. And if you don’t take up the invitation I’m sure Charlie will drag you back, and if he doesn’t I’ll seek you out. You might think we’re gonna live a picture-perfect life of ease with babies and court and social niceties, I’ve never pictured that. I thought that was what I was doing with Bonacieux and that didn’t turn out well.”

 

“I like the idea of your and d’Artagnan’s babies,” Porthos says.

 

“I wanted to be a mother,” Constance says.

 

“Not anymore?” Porthos asks, turning to face her, surprised to find her lying there with him. Constance keeps quiet on that one. She doesn’t know the answer, isn’t sure what she wants anymore. “I guess things change.”

 

“I have a family,” Constance says. “The rest… we can work out as it comes.”

 

Porthos meets her eyes, then nods, his eyes closing.

 

***

 

Treville finds him. It’s not hard, there are only two or three places Porthos might be, and only one place Constance would help him get to. Treville takes his files down to her office and sits, back against the settee Porthos is lying on.

 

“Can I pass you some of this?” Treville asks. Porthos holds out a hand but just leaves the file resting on his stomach, not opening it. He’s got his head turned away and seems to be trying to sleep. Treville reads some of his report out-loud. It’s very boring.

 

“How is he?” asks a voice from the doorway. Porthos’s eyes open lazily then close again, a smile barely touching his lips.

 

“Captain,” Treville says, getting off the floor and going to take Athos’s arm, pull him into a half embrace. “Good to see you, why aren’t you at the front?”

 

“We have business in Paris,” Athos says, smiling. “We’re escorting two Spanish defectors, sir, I sent a message on ahead.”

 

Treville sends his pile of paperwork a guilty sideways look.

 

“Tell me anyway,” Treville says.

 

“How’s Porthos?” Athos asks, also looking over Treville’s shoulder, ignoring the order.

 

“Better,” Treville says.

 

“Fit,” Porthos says, from his sprawl.

 

“You look more alive than last time I saw you, but hardly fit,” Athos says, not moving closer. “Minister, we have business.”

 

Treville gets his jacket and paperwork and follows Athos out. d’Artagnan’s out in the courtyard, mounted, holding the reigns of two horses.

 

**

 

Athos finishes at the Louvre as quick as he can. He’d let d’Artagnan go as soon as they’d escorted Treville back to where he should be, doing the debrief himself. He has a lot of intelligence he needs to pass on and it takes a while. Treville tells him about Porthos between things, which Athos appreciates but really he’d rather just get this over quicker. Treville also provides wine, which is fine. Athos drinks half a cup as he talks. Finally he’s free to go and he can take Jeudi and head for home. Porthos is in Constance and d’Artagnan’s rooms, taking up space as they awkwardly try to be polite to him. Athos stands in the doorway and can’t keep his lips from twitching into an amused smile.

 

“Porthos,” he says, ducking his head a little to try and find Porthos’s gaze. Porthos looks up at him and his eyes crinkle up. “Shall we?”

 

Porthos grimaces and pulls an odd face, then looks up intently at Athos. He probably can’t get up. Athos goes to offer an arm and lever Porthos up off the settee. To his surprise Constance gets up too, her focus away from d’Artagnan long enough to come and kiss Porthos’s cheek.

 

“Oh. Thank you,” Porthos says, blinking.

 

“Come on,” Athos says, wrapping an arm around Porthos’s waist.

 

“Ow, careful,” Porthos complains, patting Constance’s arm as he turns away. “I’m injured here.”

 

“Oh, really?” Athos mutters, irritable after a long ride, a long day. “I thought you were here on holiday.”

 

Porthos laughs. He’s got a tight grip on Athos and moves slowly, which is frustrating but understandable. When Porthos left the front he’d been barely conscious. He’d barely been alive, really. Athos breathes out sharply.

 

“Captain, these are my rooms,” Porthos says.

 

“Sorry,” Athos says, shaking himself, stopping. Sure enough here is Porthos’s door.

 

Porthos hasn’t been living here, Athos can tell. It’s cold and dark and nothing’s where it should be. There’s a fire set at least, looks like d’Artagnan’s work - that boy always thinks of things. Athos sets it burning, Porthos sitting on the edge of the bed to watch.

 

“Treville tells me you’re almost well,” Athos says.

 

“Yeah, mostly,” Porthos says, not really sounding like it’s true. He’s probably tired, though, dragging himself from the palace all the way here only yesterday.

 

“I thought I might find you dead,” Athos says.

 

“Constance wrote,” Porthos says.

 

“You on the other hand did not,” Athos snaps, prodding the fire too hard and sending a shower of sparks out.

 

“Treville says I’m his son,” Porthos says. To deflect? Athos ignores it. Everyone knows Treville thinks of Porthos as family. He gets up and yanks the buckles of his armour, undoing himself. “C’mere.”

 

“No,” Athos says, shortly, stepping further away. He can’t quite reach everything and he’s tired.

 

Porthos gets to his feet and comes over, getting the rest of the buckles, pulling leather and metal away from Athos’s skin, undoing his jacket and shirt and padding, stripping him down to his skin and bruises. Athos turns, taking Porthos’s face in his hands and kissing him, leaning into his space, breathing hard.

 

“I’m alive,” Porthos says, breath harsh.

 

Athos remembers himself and takes Porthos’s weight, guiding him again to the bed to sit. There are still bandages around Porthos’s torso, high on his thigh. Athos unwinds them, fingers pressing into Porthos’s skin to keep him still. Porthos isn’t moving as much as he usually does, he lies under Athos, eyes heavy, as Athos finds him under the bandages, finds the twisting knots of stitches, the scarring flesh, skin ridged and pucked and awkward. Athos kisses over it, lays his cheek against Porthos’s stomach, lying still.

 

“Is it enough?” Athos asks.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“This. Between us,” Athos says, hand over Porthos’s healing thigh, resting but anxious of the answer. “Me.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Always was enough, even when you were pickled in wine and in love with your dead wife.”

 

“Good lord,” Athos mutters.

 

“I’m coming back to the front with you,” Porthos says. “Day after tomorrow.”

 

“How do you know when we ride?” Athos asks.

 

“I’m Louvre furniture, these days,” Porthos says. “Hard lots of conversations. I didn’t know it was you coming, though, that was a surprise. Hello.”

 

“You could stay. Rest. Get properly well,” Athos says.

 

“Not my choice. I’m being sent,” Porthos says. “There aren’t enough men. You need me.”

 

Athos keeps quiet, because that is sadly true. They manage, without Porthos they just about manage. It’s difficult though. Porthos carries a lot on his broad shoulders, his own duties and picking up where Athos or d’Artagnan miss the mark. They’ve both had promotions, where Porthos has been in his job for years now. Athos presses a kiss to Porthos’s skin and feels a tremble.

 

“I’d make you general of all the French armies,” Athos says. “If I could choose.” Then, more acerbic, “If _you_ could choose you’d probably still choose to schlep around the front half-injured.”

 

“What are you doing all the way down there? Come here and talk to me properly if you’re gonna talk,” Porthos says.

 

Athos stays right where he is, he’s perfectly happy here, he has no wish to talk. Porthos laughs, threading his hand into Athos’s hair.

 

**

 

Treville goes to the gates to see the men off. He watched Porthos strap on his armour, earlier, moving slowly and wincing at the weight. Watched him do up the straps and belts and buckles, watched him sheath Treville’s own sword. Watched as he pocketed Athos’s rosary, as he strung a crucefix Treville gave him many years ago around his neck.

 

“God’s protection?” Treville had asked. Porthos had shrugged.

 

“I believe, close enough, but no. Yours. His,” Porthos says, patting his pocket to indicate Athos. “Family, right? Got my back.”

 

Treville watches, now, as Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan ride out of the gates at a walk, their men behind them. Porthos turns back to raise his hat to Treville, half a wave half a salute, then he kicks his horse into a canter, raising dust, and soon enough they’re gone. Treville remembers all through his muscles riding out with them, feels so strongly that he should be going. He’s a soldier, not a politician. It’s not true anymore, though, not really. The ache to follow them is not entirely emotional - his shoulder and side hurt where he was shot at Rochefort’s order, and his breathing is short from the dust. He laughs at himself and shakes his head, swinging up into his own saddle (at least that’s still easy enough, though now he thinks of it not as easy as it used to be). The guard at the gate salute him as he takes the street back to the palace. Some people who move aside for his horse bow as he passes, mistaking him for a noble.

 

*

 

“It’s not a mistake, Treville,” Constance says, striding through the garrison picking up boys’ boots and clothes, opening doors as they pass to throw things into. They catch one cadet naked and his squawks follow them down the corridor. “I have work, are you here for something?”

 

“Not really,” Treville admits. “Company.”

 

“You are supposed to be at the king’s council this afternoon,” Constance says. “I know this because so am I. My excuse is no one will miss me and there’s too much to do here, what’s yours?”

 

Treville has none. They make it to the kitchen and Constance shoves a sheaf of papers at Treville, going to open the pantry, calling out supplies for Treville to make note of. She does the same with uniforms and weapons, then sits in Treville’s old office and starts doing accounts, tallying up expenses, writing out wages chits.

 

“No one looks for me up here,” Constance says, feeling his gaze on her. “Everyone thinks Serge does this.”

 

“Why doesn’t he? He’s quartermaster, with Porthos away,” Treville says.

 

“Why should he?” Constance says. “It’s my job; I run this garrison now, minister. Haven’t you noticed?”

 

Treville keeps quiet. He hadn’t noticed, not really. Or, he had, but he hadn’t known how much work she does here. He sits in a chair and gets papers passed to him, demands for signatures. Constance looks up after a while and smiles at him, amused.

 

“He loves you, too. You’re his family, Treville,” Constance says. Treville flushes, embarrassed and unable to respond in any coherent way. “Now. They’ve got a war to win, but we’ve got work here. As you have, belatedly, noticed, you are in a high position and have quite a lot of influence, there’s a lot we can do, a lot that needs doing. Shall we get on?”

  



End file.
